


The Things I Say

by zade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Éposette, Co-Parenting, M/M, Minor Injuries, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Self-Esteem Issues, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, everyone is a poc don't at me, grantaire and eponine are co-parents its fine, i am also a poc, idiots to lovers, minor domestic terrorism, once more do not @ me, soulmates but taking it slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27985131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade/pseuds/zade
Summary: The mark had appeared on Grantaire on his sixteenth birthday, just like everyone else, a black handprint on his body in the place his soulmate would first touch him.  He had tried his hardest to stay up and watch it happen, but he had been up every day that week writing a twenty page research paper, and he had fallen asleep a little before midnight and woken up to his alarm blaring at 7:15.  He had rushed to the bathroom, excited—the fucking idiocy of it all—to see the spot where his soulmate would first lay hands on him.Most of his friends had ink black splotches in the shape of fingertips or palms on their hands or wrists, the occasional shoulder or back.  Grantaire’s reflection showed a blackened handprint covering his mouth.  The very first time his soulmate would ever touch him would be to cover his mouth.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 200





	The Things I Say

**Author's Note:**

> yoooo long time no see, this fic is based on a single tiktok i saw like last year that has since been deleted so. ya know.
> 
> this fic contains: soulmates and everything that goes alone with that, low-self esteem grantaire (shockingly)/some mental health implications of Grantaire's soulmate situation, eponine and grantaire co-parenting gavroche, act of vandalism on the site of a future prison, light injuries (like, a sprained ankle), idiots to lovers, like one mention of alcohol i think
> 
> almost everyone in this group is a poc but i left it vague so you can insert your own headcanons. 
> 
> title from the one joanna newsom song for Reasons
> 
> thank you to [margosfairyeye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/margosfairyeye)

The mark had appeared on Grantaire on his sixteenth birthday, just like everyone else, a black handprint on his body in the place his soulmate would first touch him. He had tried his hardest to stay up and watch it happen, but he had been up every day that week writing a twenty page research paper, and he had fallen asleep a little before midnight and woken up to his alarm blaring at 7:15. He had rushed to the bathroom, excited—the fucking idiocy of it all—to see the spot where his soulmate would first lay hands on him.

Most of his friends had ink black splotches in the shape of fingertips or palms on their hands or wrists, the occasional shoulder or back. Grantaire’s reflection showed a blackened handprint covering his mouth. The very first time his soulmate would ever touch him would be to cover his mouth. Despite this, his mom hadn’t let him call in sick, which wasn’t much of a surprise. She was cold about soulmate stuff, always had been. Her mark, on her shoulder, and his dad’s had never resolved to the scarred over look they were supposed to when you met your soulmate. They weren’t happy, maybe never had been, and they weren’t soulmates, and although no one had ever told him for sure, Grantaire was certain they had only stayed together for him. His mom was supposed to go to Spain to study history and had needed to cancel her trip when she had gotten pregnant. Maybe her soulmate was meant to be a Spaniard. Grantaire had so much wanted to meet his soulmate and live happily for the rest of his life; he wanted to get what his mama hadn’t got. 

Maybe his soulmate was going to hate him. Maybe he’d be better off living like his mom and never finding out.

He had gone to school and had ended up spending much of the day in the guidance counselor’s office anyway, as the laughter of fellow students had begun to get “distracting.” He remembered the guidance counselor asking if there was anything he wanted to talk about. Yes—no—maybe; mostly he wanted her to leave him alone. He thought about his soulmate, his soulmate who wanted to shut him up, and decided he was never going to hide his feelings on anything, ever again. “What the fuck do you think?”

The one day suspension had just been the beginning.

He had been suspended six times by the end of his senior year, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t getting into college, but it didn’t stop him. For the essay question, “describe a time in your life you faced adversity,” he pasted a picture of himself and teenage bullying statistics.

He was more surprised than anyone else when he got in.

Eponine is his first college friend. He meets her drunk off his ass the second day of orientation and by junior year they are living together off campus, and it’s better than Grantaire thought it would be. Neither of them are looking for their soulmates, or are even looking forward to the possible eventuality. They spend evenings watching tv with Gavroche or sneaking Gavroche into bars; she covers up her mark and Grantaire makes his as loud as possible.

Eponine buys a special concealer meant to cover up tattoos. “It works well enough,” she says, offering it to Grantaire for the thousandth time. They’re close enough in skin tone that Gavroche often gets confused for their biological child, but Grantaire doesn’t mind anymore. It’s all part of their morning ritual: he insists on bothering her as she gets ready for class or work and she insists on offering her concealer. It’s rote at this point but it’s familiar

And it’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the offer—he doesn’t, but that’s beside the point—to cover up now would be to pretend his friends and peers hadn’t already seen the black handprint over his mouth. Eponine has been covering hers up since she was in high school, and she’s adept at it. None of Les Amis have seen her without her mark covered up but Grantaire, and that’s only because they live together, and neither developed the specific sense of shame you need to keep from busting in on your roommate in the bathroom.

She waves the concealer at him one last time. Her mark is on the base of her neck, dark and angry like she’s being choked, and he understands why she covers it. “Last chance, lover boy.” It’s possible it’s nothing, it’s innocuous, it’s a hand placed as close to her face or heart as they dare—but it stands out and he knows Eponine was always taught to blend in, in order to stay out of trouble.

Grantaire shakes his head and she shrugs before depositing it back in her bag for touch ups. She also carries a variety of silk scarves just in case, and Grantaire envies her that she can just cover up if she chooses to, but isn’t sure he would if he were her. There’s something freeing in knowing even the one destined for him hates his fucking guts. “I think I’d scare the crap out of everyone if I showed up sans mark.”

Eponine shrugs again. “There’s some in the medicine cabinet if you change your mind,” she says, like she says every day. He’s never going to take her up on it, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell her to stop offering.

“You going to the meeting tonight?” he asks her. Their classes don’t match up as well this year as they have previous years, and one is frequently leaving as the other one arrives or vice versa. Grantaire misses being able to walk to campus with her, but it’s also nice to have time for himself when she and Gavroche are both in school. 

She shakes her head. “Nope, gotta grab the gremlin from soccer practice. Sorry, R, you’ll have to moon over Enjolras all by your lonesome tonight.”

He snorts. “I’ll tell Cosette you say hi, shall I?” She throws up the middle finger and storms out of the door, but he receives a text from her a few minutes later that reads, “you could tell her i say hey” and he snorts again. Eponine and Cosette have been dancing around each other for long enough he’s getting a sense of what it must be like for his friends when he talks about Enjolras—except Eponine has a chance with Cosette. When she stares, Cosette is staring right back, even if he can’t imagine her giving Eponine that horrible mark.

With a sigh, he pushes off the couch and goes to the bathroom, with the vague ambition of showering before the meeting tonight.

They have a hanging full length mirror on the back of their bathroom door and Grantaire strips, takes a long moment to look at his reflection. He’s not handsome, but he’s not so bad, he thinks. His body is a little more barrel-shaped than lean muscle like Bahorel, but it serves him well. Really, he thinks he might be approaching average if it wasn't for the soulmark covering half his face in black.

Grantaire has rarely dated since his sixteenth birthday. Most of the people he’s tried to date lost interest when they discovered they weren’t going to be the one to shut Grantaire up, and once it happened for the fourth time, Grantaire gave up on trying, content to engage in the occasional mediocre hookup and then cry on the couch for a few hours.

He showers quickly, glad Eponine deigned to leave him any hot water this time, and schleps himself to his room to throw on the cleanest clothes he has. He may have given up on dating, but he hasn’t give up crushes, try as he might, and his stupid heart has its stupid eyes fixed on Enjolras.

Enjolras, who spends most of the meetings that Grantaire can actually get himself to go to staring at Grantaire with what he has to assume is quiet anger, although he doesn’t know why. The first few years they had known each other had included frequent group hang outs, and even a few solo coffee-and-study sessions that had felt mildly flirtatious to Grantaire at the time. It’s been happening less and less as they get older, though, and Grantaire subsists now off of Enjolras’s disapproving glances. That’s fine, his glares just fuel Grantaire’s pathetic fantasies of Enjolras slamming his hand over Grantaire’s mouth and then spending the rest of the night making it up to Grantaire on his knees.

It’s not to be, though. He knows it. Knows why.

He gets to the Musain early, and grabs a coffee from Marius, who is new to working there, and who stares at Grantaire like a deer in the headlights, even though they’ve known each other for years now. 

“What it do?” he greets, slamming his reusable coffee thermos down. “Can I get this filled with coffee please?”

“What it do,” Marius says back almost inaudibly, eyes darting around frantically, like someone will call him on not using the approved greeting. Musichetta, standing four feet away, rolls her eyes and grins and Grantaire and he grins back. Marius misses their look, as he is looking panicked at the cash register. “I don’t know how to do reusable cups.”

Musichetta swoops in, barely suppressing a laugh. “This button,” she says, showing him for what Grantaire guesses is not the first time. It takes Marius a moment to actually push it, and then longer than it should to actually fill the thermos, but that just gives Grantaire a moment with Musichetta.

“Can I expect your lovely visage at the meeting? Your boys?”

She bites down on her laugh. “You’re incorrigible,” she says. “I have to work, Marius too. But we’ll be here, so I suspect we’ll hear the louder parts.” Grantaire barks an ugly laugh at that, but Musichetta smiles. She likes his laugh, has said so on numerous occasions. She is lovely and seems to have taken a shine to him for some unknowable reason. Mostly he doesn’t want to question it too hard. “But my boys should be there.”

Grantaire is about to reply when the doors are pushed open by a very riled up Courfeyrac and Grantaire forgets what he was going to say.

Marius hands him the cup, which Grantaire hopes has as much coffee in it as it has on the sides of it. “Sorry,” he mutters. “The fucking thing…it doesn’t matter. It just. Sorry.”

“Nah, I’m sure it’s great,” Grantaire says quickly, moving towards the backroom. He loves Marius dearly, but he wants to know what has Courfeyrac’s panties in a twist, and if he stays to listen to Marius he never will.

Courfeyrac seems to be on the phone, speaking loudly enough that Grantaire can feel his irritation, but not quite so loudly that he can make out the words. Grantaire settles in and waits for the others to arrive, in the hopes that they either know what is going on, or will want to Courfeyrac-watch with him. Everyone shuffles in in the next few minutes, Joly looking tired and carrying what appears to be a loaf sized but to-scale model of a human body, Bahorel with his arm in a sling, and Enjolras wearing a look that could kill, being shepherded in by Combeferre. Comparatively, Bossuet’s pink sweater and Jehan’s cactus hardly register.

“Who is on attendance?” Enjolras snaps as everyone finds their spots. Grantaire is immediately boxed in by Bahorel and Joly, which is nice, even if it tempts him to ask them questions and ignore the meeting.

“Combeferre,” Combeferre says dryly. “And believe me, he’s on it.”

Jehan pulls a notebook out of somewhere—possibly the planter with the cactus in it—and shakes some dirt off of it. “I have minutes.”

“Good,” Courfeyrac snaps. “Let’s get to it.” 

Grantaire is not sure he’s seen either of them this mad before, but it’s engaging. He wants to get mad too, wants to shout about something; it’s the only real skill he’s ever bothered practicing. “Yes,” he calls, tapping his travel cup on the table like a gavel. “Let’s get to it.” Enjolras’s look of reproach sustains him.

Here is the issue at hand: they’re building a prison three blocks from their college and Enjolras and Courfeyrac are furious. Grantaire is, too, but he’s one guy, and even all together they’re barely a dozen, and he’s not really sure what use they’re going to be against systemic racism. He wishes he could be filled with the sort of optimism they seem to all be able to access but six years with a mark on his face has taught him that people aren’t fundamentally good, and they are frequently cruel (and it has to be that, it has to, because if people are fundamentally good then what the fuck was wrong with him?).

He decides instead that he’s currently more interested in riling Enjolras up, tugging at his metaphorical pigtails. A part of him wants to get Enjolras so mad that he slaps his hand over Grantaire’s mouth to shut him up, but the rest of him doesn’t want that because he can’t imagine the fallout being anything other than catastrophic and maybe a little traumatizing.

As Eponine has told him, more than once, she would really appreciate it if he stopped chasing trauma.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac trade off speaking, as they both spent the day apparently interrogating the school administrators, the local planning committee, and few members of the local government. Grantaire listens as intently as he can, but he’s never been good at multitasking, and with Enjolras’s hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbow, his mark is on display and Grantaire can’t resist staring. Enjolras’s mark is on his wrist, just above the joint, fingers slightly splayed like he was grabbed in passing and Grantaire has the placement of every finger memorized. He likes to dream of grabbing Enjolras’s arm, pulling him away to safety from an angry counter protester or a cop. 

It’s not a very good dream, because it ends with Enjolras slamming his hand over Grantaire’s mouth or, worse possibly, not being his soulmate at all, but it’s tempting right up until that moment.

“We’re the only school in the area with a majority non-white students. It feels like…” Feuilly trails off, but Grantaire is there to interrupt him.

“A threat?”

Enjolras glowers. “That’s why we’re fighting back, Grantaire.”

“Protests aren’t going to slow down the prison industrial complex, oh Fearless Leader,” he says, clearly interrupting Enjolras’s train of thought. He understands the anger, he feels the anger, but sometimes he thinks his comrades forget they’re college students and not special agents. 

Enjolras flounders angrily for a moment before composing himself. “Do you have a suggestion, or are you just here to be negative and waste our planning time?”

Grantaire doesn’t have a suggestion, per se, but the thought of special agents has knocked something loose in his mind and he follows that thread to its end. “Fun fact about concrete,” Grantaire says, as though it’s a non-sequitur, which it absolutely is not. “2lbs of sugar per ton of concrete is enough to really slow down the hardening process to an almost, uhh, unusable degree. It slows down the drying time, and in some cases cement straight won’t cure, and they gotta pay extra to remove it, and then lay their foundations again. Lengthy. Costly.” He takes a long, obnoxious sip of his coffee. They’re not going to go for it, he knows that, but it feels good to bait the group with the idea of action.

A silence settles around the room, everyone looking around, waiting for anyone else to be the one to make the first move. The air is electric and everyone is vibrating with the sudden energy. Courfeyrac says softly, “Well,” and everyone turns to him.

Combeferre is frowning. “That would end up being, what, like a couple hundred in sugar? Can we take that out of the club funds or is that illegal?”

“I can front us,” Bahorel says with a deep belly laugh.

Enjolras’s eyes haven’t left Grantaire’s. They sear into him and he is left like concrete that won’t cure—soft. “Be serious,” Enjolras says, but he looks almost excited.

Grantaire smirks. He knows how it looks on his marked face, how wrong it looks to split the handprint with his teeth, and he likes that it makes most people uncomfortable, even if his friends are largely used to him. “I’m wild,” he says. Something softens in Enjolras’s face, and Grantaire thinks they might be having a moment.

“Be gay do crimes!” Jehan cries from the other end of the room, and the moment is broken.

Grantaire’s phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s Eponine, and she asks “how’s the meeting going?” Grantaire thinks he gets a pass on responding, “criminally,” because to be fair, it is.

Eponine is waiting for him, glaring, when he gets home. “Criminal?” she asks lightly. Gavroche is perched on the counter eating a frozen waffle and gives Grantaire a look that shows how much he wants to say, “ooooooooh, your ass in trouble!” but knows how much Eponine will disapprove.

“We may be actually doing an actual crime-slash-action,” Grantaire says, hedging around her. Gavroche offers him a frozen waffle, but Grantaire refuses. “What are we feeding the gremlin?”

“I made pasta.” Eponine glares harder, hands on her hips. “Tell me what you’re planning.”

Grantaire finds the remains of the pasta on the stove, and scoops himself a bowl. “Then why is he eating Eggos?”

“Off brand,” Gavroche corrects. “’Ponine said we can’t afford Eggos this month. And it’s on accounta how I’m going through another growth spurt.”

Eponine walks around the counter, standing as close to Grantaire as she can. She’s shorter than him, but scrappy, and he’s sure she could take him in a fight. “R, I’m not asking again. What. Are. You. Planning.”

“If I tell you,” he says, softer so Gavroche won’t hear, “you will technically be an accessory. So please forget I mentioned anything, okay?”

The look on Eponine’s face softens slightly. “Idiot. You realize you are incredibly recognizable, yes?”

“My stunning good looks?” He shovels the pasta into his mouth. It’s pretty good, much better than her attempts when Gavroche had first come “to stay with them for a week”—a week which has thus far lasted three years. 

“No idiot. Your mark.” 

Ah. That.

He hadn’t thought about it, and honestly isn’t sure he’s going to commit to going, anyway. Most of the rest of them can afford bail but Grantaire cannot and doesn’t want to owe any of them. In his fantasies, Enjolras-who-is-his-soulmate would bail him out, but the major issue with this and with all his other fantasies is the fact that he knows Enjolras is not his soulmate.

They settle down to eat dinner in front of the tv. It’s some hospital drama that Eponine claims not to like but is deeply invested in. Two of the doctors are in an oversized closet. The blonde one says to her mediocre looking but very butch male counterpart, teary eyed, “Touch me again. So we can be sure.” She pulls aside her shirt to show her mark, resting directly over her heart, and Grantaire groans. Both Gavroche and Eponine shush him without looking over.

“Samantha,” mediocre male lead says, “you’re a brilliant woman and an amazing surgeon, but we’ve been down this path, and you know nothing will come of it. I’m not your soulmate.” Grantaire knows where this is going. They’ve already fucked, but tv and films seem to love the one-in-a-million soulmate stories, so of course, she says, “Please, Adam,” and he places his hand on her breast as they kiss, and the camera zooms in to see the mark sinking into her skin.

Gavroche looks between them suspiciously. “That can’t really happen can it?”

Grantaire says, “No,” at the same time Eponine says, “Yes, but—”

He looks between the two of them, unimpressed eyebrow riding up his forehead. “Y’all need to get your story straight.”

Eponine fixes Grantaire with an almost identical look. Grantaire sighs. “Yes, technically, it can happen like that, but practically it doesn’t. If someone isn’t your soulmate at first, it is magnitudes of unlikely they’ll be later on. But sometimes, yeah, someone isn’t your soulmate when you first touch, and then things change and later they are. Things change, you change, the world changes. Unclear why.”

Gavroche’s gaze dips down to Grantaire’s mark and for the first time in ages he wants to cover it. Gavroche nods after a moment and goes to brush his teeth.

Eponine pauses, licks her lips. She’s got the look on her face that says she wants to yell at Grantaire—affectionately—but is restraining herself. “He could still be your soulmate, R. A handshake first week of freshman year doesn’t mean shit. You’ve grown a lot since then. Both of you.”

He nods until she goes away to help Gavroche get ready for bed. It does mean shit, though, even if he’s the only one ready to admit it. He stays up late that night and imagines Enjolras kissing him and tries not to cry.

The next day, Eponine follows him to the emergency planning meeting. Musichetta isn’t behind the counter, but Marius still is, looking a little more comfortable. “Marius!” Eponine says, walking in with the fakest smile she owns. “Marius, my dearest friend, will you watch the gremlin for me?”

Between them, Gavroche is well on his way to polishing off a family sized bag of off-brand Goldfish. “Hi Marius,” he says, followed by a spray of Goldfish crumbs. Marius looks like he very much wants to say no, but Marius also has the spine of a jellyfish, and nods, gesturing to a bar seat, which Gavroche adeptly climbs onto.

As they walk into the back room, he hears Gavroche ask for a coffee and hopes Marius has the sense not to give a nine year old coffee, but he supposes they will deal with it when they get back.

The mood in the back room is tense, but excited. Grantaire isn’t sure he has ever seen such a manic grin on Courfeyrac’s face, and Jehan, who is skillfully rolling himself and Feuilly joints, seems practically giddy.

“Yo,” Grantaire says, saluting the gathered group. “I’ve brought the experienced criminal with me.” He gestures at Eponine who responds with half-assed spirit fingers, glaring.

“Criminal?” Cosette asks sweetly, turning her head to the side in confusion. There’s something young about her that always rubbed Grantaire the wrong way until Eponine had smacked him and said, “don’t be a bastard just because we had to grow up early and she didn’t.”

He had been a lot sweeter after that. 

Cosette’s soulmark is on her cheek, but not the harsh, forward mark that denotes a smack; a cupped looking hand, like whoever her soulmate is wanted to look into her eyes, and Grantaire is past being jealous of other people’s marks but he considers making an exception for her. She is sweet and she has a lovely smile, and Eponine goes all moon eyed for her.

“Technically you can’t prove it,” Eponine says, climbing onto a chair backwards in a smooth, practiced move that should not look as cool as it does. “As I have never been caught.” Jehan and Bahorel applaud loudly at this, and in the corner, Grantaire can tell Enjolras’s patience is waning.

Combeferre exchanges a tense look with Enjolras, and seems to win because Enjolras shrugs, aggravated, and begins pacing, and Combeferre turns to Eponine with a smile. “As not getting caught is our prerogative, we would appreciate any input you have.”

“First and foremost,” she says, and everyone quiets, looking attentively. “Cover your fucking marks, or fake ones. Bit of black ink will keep you for a few days. But especially anyone with one on their face,” she says, looking directly at Grantaire, who raises a combative eyebrow back, “or any on your hands or arms—anywhere they can see if you’re handcuffed or if your shirt rips—should be covered or you should stay home.”

Cosette’s hand ventures to her cheek, touching her own mark gingerly. “Why?” 

Eponine licks her lips, stalling, and Grantaire swoops in. “So if they get a picture of you, but fail to catch you, it’ll be harder to identify you. If you’ve got a mark like mine—” he pauses to point at the blackened mark over his face, “that makes it real easy for a cop to remember you.”

“Are you thinking ski masks?” Bossuet asks, with a look on his face that telegraphs his mental arithmetic, figuring how many ski masks he can knit and how much time it will take.

“No,” Eponine says emphatically. “Hats and makeup. Maybe a scarf. And you should be wearing gloves anyway, so you’re not leaving DNA everywhere.”

Enjolras has cooled down some, and everyone’s attention turns to him when he begins speaking, except Grantaire, who has barely been able to take his eyes off of Enjolras for as long as he’s known him. “We were thinking also we split up who buys sugar, send them with cash.”

“Better yet, friend of a friend with cash,” Jehan says, licking the paper on his joint, and presenting it to Feuilly, who grins.

“I agree,” Feuilly seconds. “The further away from our circle it is, the less likely it is to come back to us.”

Enjolras consents to this with a nod. “Fine. That’s fine. I was thinking pairs, but maybe solo is better?”

Grantaire zones out, watching Enjolras but not hearing his words. Every so often, Enjolras’s gaze stops on him like it always has, which allows Grantaire momentary fantasies of Enjolras staring into his eyes with a softer expression on his face and hand held in hand, which he thinks may be enough to get him through the week. He tries to shake it off. It doesn’t matter. They aren’t soulmates.

From a few chairs away, Joly raises his cane to get the group’s attention. “I think I should stay home. It’ll be good to have someone with medic training if something goes wrong, and I will slow you all down.” He hesitates, and then adds, “Plus, I wouldn’t do well in jail without access to my myriad of drugs, so…”

Before anyone can say anything, Grantaire speaks, because Joly is his friend, and because nothing and no one can shut him up. “That seems smart. And I don’t want you to put yourself in a bad situation. Having someone to come patch us up if we get a little roughed up seems smart, wouldn’t you lot agree?”

It’s the sort of comment that in a different situation would get people muttering about understanding why his soulmate would want to shut him up, but Les Amis either quietly nod or agree with him and even after three years it’s a shock to his system.

Joly beams at him. “Thank you for your support, R, it is appreciated.”

Jehan takes a long, studious look at his notepad and says, “Okay so, outsource sugar acquisition, pair up, cover marks, insert sugar into foundations and run?” He looks around the room with a slight frown, taking everyone in. “We still got a bail fund?” 

“Do we know when they’re laying cement?” Bossuet asks sensibly. 

“Do we know if they’re even using cement as a base?” Bahorel counters.

The meeting breaks down from there, but that’s okay, they’ve planned to meet again the next day, hopefully with more info. Musichetta, arguably the least involved and also a journalism major, has gotten permission to try and interview the construction company for the school paper and can hopefully manage some reconnaissance, and Courfeyrac offers to seduce anyone else they need info from.

Grantaire keeps his eyes on Enjolras for most of the time. Enjolras’s quiet, but studious, listening in on the various conversations, face hardening by degrees. It is very clear that this is monumentally stupid, but Grantaire feels energized by it, by the possibility of affecting something, even if it’s just the wallets of the people involved. Grantaire is pretty sure several of them will end up in jail for this, but it’s not like he was doing that well for himself out of jail. Maybe jail will be the thing to turn his life around. He snorts, and when he looks up again, his eyes meet Enjolras’s for just a moment.

Jail would be bad, he decides. He needs to set a good example for Gavroche.

Eponine seems to have snuck off and Grantaire tries to sneak off to join her, but is surprised to find her standing at the counter bar, talking to Marius and Cosette. He saunters over to them.

“Yo,” he says and Marius nods hi, looking frazzled and a little over caffeinated.

“Look at the drawing I made for Miss Cosette,” Gavroche says, all wide eyes and childhood innocence. It’s a good con on anyone who doesn’t know him personally, but it’s hard for Grantaire to keep a laugh in. He doesn’t want to scandalize Cosette, but he can’t imagine looking at Gavroche and thinking anything other than ‘manipulative little shit that he happens to love like a son.’

It’s a colored pencil drawing and it actually has a sense of perspective—which Grantaire thinks is maybe impressive for his age, but he’s not entire sure about that—with Eponine and Cosette holding hands, and Gavroche standing off to the sides, both of their soulmarks outlined in a darker brown than their skin tone and blatant, but not black. It’s unsubtle, but it’s charming, and is potentially the kick in the pants Eponine needs.

Cosette is blushing faintly, smiling shyly at Eponine, eyes darting between Eponine and Gavroche. “You’ve got such talent!” When she turns back to Eponine, her gaze goes even softer and Grantaire’s pulse picks up. This is it, he thinks, this is real live soulmatery in action. “Must get it from you, Eponine.”

Eponine swallows hard. “I ain’t got nothing to do with it. It’s all Grantaire. He’s got the talent here.” 

Grantaire deeply doesn’t want to get involved with this, and he darts a look at Marius who clearly also doesn’t. Marius’s mark is on his hand like a normal undramatic human adult. “Nope!”

“That’s not really what I meant. You know that, right?” Cosette hesitates, then glances at the picture and seems to take strength from it. “I was glad you came tonight. I missed seeing you in class. Getting coffee with you. I was beginning to worry you were avoiding me.”

Eponine shakes her head vehemently, her coils bouncing with the motion. “No. I…things are tough right now, you get it.”

Cosette nods. “I do. And I’m glad I didn’t do anything to alienate you.”

Grantaire is going to die if this isn’t resolved immediately. It feels like a movie, the ones on Lifetime or Hallmark where you know the main characters are soulmates from the get-go but it makes you wait two hours for the resolution, and he’s been waiting three years for the two of them.

“No, of course you didn’t,” Eponine says softly. He can tell her hands are itching to touch Cosette and Grantaire is tempted to slap some sense into her. Put your hand on her fucking face, he mouths at her, but she barely pays him any mind.

Cosette gestures to the corner with her head. “Can we talk for a moment? I know you have to get home to take care of Gavroche, but I just want to talk for a moment.”

Eponine nods, panic written clearly on her face, but she follows Cosette. They’re out of the main coffee area and into a study alcove, hard to see from either door, but directly in front of Grantaire. 

“Nailed it,” Gavroche says triumphantly. “Who’s the fucking champ? GOAT! Gavroche baby!” 

Marius says, “Can he say fuck?” nervously, but Grantaire is ignoring him. Cosette says something and Eponine shakes her head, but Cosette is smiling gently, easing Eponine into whatever she’s tempting her with. Eternal happiness, maybe. Eponine’s hands are in tight fists at her side and Grantaire wants to go over there and shake some sense into her. This could be her chance. “C’mon,” he mutters. “C’mon.”

Cosette reaches out, placing her hand in the spot where Eponine’s neck meets her collar bones and, getting onto tiptoes, gives Eponine a soft kiss. Grantaire can tell the moment Eponine feels it, the moment her mark sinks into her skin. He’s been told it feels almost orgasmic and her face shows it. She reaches out, cradling Cosette’s face, and Cosette pulls back with a gasp. They stare at each other for a long moment, then begin kissing again in earnest, and Grantaire remembers at that moment that he should maybe get Gavroche to look away.

“Okay, and that’s all folks, wrap it up, demon spawn, we’re going.”

Gavroche is still smirking. “I knew it an’ I was right.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Let’s go, Eponine will meet us back at home.” Gavroche begins packing up his art stuff when the door to the backroom opens and the rest of the Amis come bustling out. There are a few whistles in Eponine and Cosette’s direction—courtesy of Courfeyrac and Feuilly, mostly—and then Enjolras is in Grantaire’s space and he freezes.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says evenly. “You are planning on following through with this, right? I can count on you to show up and do what you’re supposed to?”

Grantaire nods numbly. He doesn’t want to—when he had said it he had meant it, and he believes in what they are doing, but he’s not a man of action. He is, however, a man deeply devoted to another, more active man. “I’d do anything for you,” is maybe the worst response he could have, but it comes from his lips unbidden.

He can hear Gavroche attempting to keep in giggles and failing miserably, and reconsiders offering to stop and buy the twerp some ice cream.

Enjolras’s lips quirk into something near a smile. “You shouldn’t just say that to people, R, they might take advantage.” Enjolras’s left hand moves unconsciously, gripping the handprint on his right. Grantaire can barely keep his eyes away; they keep traveling to the spot, like his eyes are magnetized due Enjolras.

“There are those I would absolutely let take advantage of me,” Grantaire responds, like a moron. “Sorry, I’m tired,” he adds, and hopes Enjolras buys it.

“Get some sleep then,” he says. “We need everyone functional; I think we’re going to be moving in the next few days. I need you to be at your best, got it?” He’s smiling and Grantaire melts.

“I—yes. Got it.” He offers Enjolras a half-assed salute, and Enjolras chuckles, nodding as he walks past Grantaire and out of the cafe.

Bahorel steps over to slap him on the back. “It’s a bitch of a life,” he says, and Grantaire can’t really fault him for that. Bahorel’s mark is on his shoulder, and it’s faded to scar colored, even though Bahorel doesn’t know who his soulmate is. “Musta been someone at a store or concert or something,” he had said once, and Grantaire’s heart had ached for him. To have met your soulmate and not know must be tortuous. 

Instead, Grantaire is almost certain of his, and also certain he is wrong. Nine times out of ten it seems as though Enjolras is hoping to shut him up, and Grantaire is willing to bet money that Enjolras would be the one to slam his hand over Grantaire’s mouth, and then tell him promptly that Enjolras could never settle for someone like him. “I gotta get the gremlin home,” he says instead of engaging with Bahorel. 

Bahorel allows it, and leaves off pestering him further re: Enjolras. “Aiight. But you know you can always call if you need someone to whoop your ass back into shape.”

Grantaire isn’t sure if Bahorel means his actual ass or his metaphorical feelings ass, but it’s easier to not ask. They have it rough, he supposes, but not as rough as Combeferre, Mr. I’d-prefer-to-date-rather-than-hook-up himself, whose soulmark is directly on his dick. 

Gavroche comes when Grantaire whistles for him, and as he walks them out of the cafe, he can see Cosette and Eponine, still talking in low voices in the corner. He catches Eponine’s eye and she nods at him, which he supposes is meant to be implicit permission to take Gavroche, but it’s not as if he’s ever needed permission before.

Gavroche refuses to hold Grantaire’s hand until they’re out of sight of the cafe and then grabs it. “I don’t need it,” he explains. “I just like knowing you’re not about to run off and forget all about me is all.”

Grantaire holds Gavroche’s hand the whole way home. He doesn’t know that kind of chest deep fear of loss that plagues Eponine and Gavroche both, but they’re his family and he’s not about to let them feel more loss from him if he can help it.

The meeting the next day starts out with more of the same, and then at some point Grantaire realizes that they’re mobilizing, and they’re mobilizing for tomorrow. It’s stupid—it’s a stupid, inexact plan that will get them all arrested or killed and it’s going to be his fault because his soulmate cursed him to never be able to shut his fucking mouth.

“We should wear civvies under our black,” Grantaire hears himself saying. “So we can strip off when we’re a few blocks away from the site. Blend in better.”

Enjolras has the audacity to look surprised for a moment, then impressed. “That’s…that’s a good idea actually, Grantaire, thank you.”

There’s more vocal agreement, but Grantaire is already losing focus. He wastes some time on his phone, and when he looks up, the talk has gotten quieter, and Enjolras is staring at him with what looks like angry confusion. He’s not sure what he did to make Enjolras feel the emotions his face is projecting, but a terrible, dumb, weak part of him is happy just to be getting any attention at all.

He distantly hears Feuilly say, “Okay so pairs are as follows: Enjolras with—”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupts, and everyone turns to him in confusion, especially Grantaire.

Feuilly blows out a breath. “Uh. Okay, that’s—that’s fine. Let’s try again. Enjolras and Grantaire, Bahorel and me, Jehan and Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Marius. Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet will be at their apartment should anyone need patching up and the sugar purchasers have been selected. Any other objections?”

Grantaire cannot focus on anything beyond that. He’s staring at Enjolras and his mouth is gaping like a fish. Why the fuck would Enjolras choose him? Maybe he thinks Grantaire is expendable, someone he can shove under the bus to make a quick getaway. Or maybe he thinks, correctly, that Grantaire is more likely to show up if Enjolras is counting on him. Or maybe some part of him thinks he might be Grantaire’s soulmate and he wants to give Grantaire a chance to prove himself.

He’s not sure how he feels about that last one.

When Grantaire gets home Eponine is on the couch with Gavroche, who is half watching the television, and she’s got a couple of new hickies on her neck.

“That’s new.”

Eponine hurls the tv remote at him and misses. He retrieves it and hands it to her, and tries not to join Gavroche in his giggles. “You’re late,” she says, and Grantaire nods.

“Yeah. Meeting went late.”

She glares at him, then looks at Gavroche and clearly decides whatever she was about to say shouldn’t be for his ears. She mouths, “later,” at him angrily, and he accepts that with another nod.

“Whatchu watching?” he asks Gavroche.

Gavroche shrugs. “That time traveler show. The one with the guy who like, can’t die?” He looks up at Eponine, and predictably she comes to his rescue.

“Those are two different shows, Gav. This is the one with the guy who can’t die.”

Grantaire isn’t sure he knows it from that description but he nods along like he does anyway. “Is it any good?”

Gavroche gives him a considering look. “I can believe he’s a guy who can’t die, but I have more trouble believing the girl whose soulmark moved for him. Like, it was on her hip and now it’s on her shoulder? Like, I know people can’t not die, but the mark thing seems too close to something that could happen, so I like that less because it feels like it’s lying.”

Grantaire takes a moment to decipher that. “You mean, a soulmark moving places? On someone's body?” Gavroche nods and Grantaire sighs; he should be paid for the amount of Gavroche teaching he’s doing this week. “It can, kiddo. Unlikely, but it can.” He’s sure he knows someone whose mark moved, he can clearly remember talking about it, but the name and face are escaping him. “Marius! When we first met Marius, his was on his upper arm, now it’s on his hand. Sometimes they move. Situations change. We change.”

Gavroche frowns. “Then why hasn’t yours moved?”

Grantaire doesn’t have an answer for that that won’t make him cry, so he closes his mouth, standing up quickly. He faces the wall and tries to blink away the wetness suddenly forming in his eyes. He knows Gavroche doesn’t mean anything by it, but it hurts all the same.  
“Bedtime!” Eponine practically yells, ushering Gavroche into the bathroom. “Go brush your teeth.” He scampers off and she sighs. “Sorry about that. Seems like it’s time for another ‘inside thoughts’ talk.”

Grantaire shrugs. It stings, but he loves that kid more than most of his relatives. “It’s okay. He’s learning.”

Eponine nods slowly. “He is. Learning from example. Learning from watching how the adults in his life model adulthood.” He knows where she’s going before she gets there, but tenses for impact all the same. “For instance, if his father figures goes off and gets himself arrested tomorrow night.”

“I won’t get arrested,” Grantaire says, even though he’s extremely unsure about that. 

“You could.” She doesn’t sound upset, or even disappointed. She’s speaking to him in the worried monotone she slips into when she talks about how she’s sure she has failed Gavroche. “You could get arrested and I can’t be a single mom at twenty-one, R. The only reason this remotely works is because the two of us are a great team. Without you, this is going to fall apart. You know that, right?”

“You have Cosette, now,” he says, which is not even remotely fair and he knows it.

“Listen, Cosette is my soulmate, and I’m pretty sure I love her already, but she didn’t grow up like this, she doesn’t know what it’s like to worry about food or clothes or shelter, and she wants to help and someday, yeah, I hope he considers her another mom. Like I hope he’ll consider your soulmate another parent. But we’re not there yet. We’ve been on one date, I’m not ready to ask her to move in and make my little brother peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the exact, neurotic way he likes.”

Grantaire can respect that. All of that. But, “I know we’re not going to make a difference, not going to make a dent in societal problems, but if we do nothing we’re part of the problem. And I don’t wanna be that. I want to help, and if I go to jail, well, at least it’ll be ironic.”

Eponine sighs. When she speaks she says, “Reconsider. Please,” in a measured voice. He nods and tells her that he will. He won’t, though. He couldn’t.

Eponine recovers enough the next evening to help him cover his soulmark, however. She sits him down in front of her mirror, and covers his face in primer and powder and cover-up until his mark is completely obscured under it. Grantaire looks at his face for the first time in years, uncovered and real and he sort of wants to laugh, which he isn’t sure is a rational reaction.

“How do I look?” he asks.

Eponine looks furious with him, had the whole time she had been brushing all the makeup onto his face. “Ugly,” she settles on.

He grins at her. “So no change.” He’s dressed in track pants and a big black hoodie he got from the thrift store and is not too broken up about the possibility of losing, and under that a t-shirt and flannel so he can look weather appropriate if he needs to lose a layer to blend in.

He’s getting his shoes on before she says anything else. “Don’t go,” she says.

“If you were me, would you go?” Eponine’s face is guarded, unsure. “I’m serious: if you were me, would you go? You’re the bravest person I know. And I know sometimes the Amis can get on your nerves. But this is something real, something tangible, something we can do. Tell me you wouldn’t go and I’ll stay.” He looks behind her shoulder to Gavroche’s bedroom, where Gavroche has just put himself to bed with a book Eponine got him from the library, something about magic and time travel. “Tell me you wouldn’t do it for Gavroche.”

Her face has gone from furious to nervous, but she spares a moment to give him a look of disgust. “Oh, fuck you.” She huffs, then nods. “Fine, go, do terrorism. But come home. Don’t let yourself be caught. And Grantaire—” she grabs him by the shoulders, squeezing tight, “if it’s between you and Enjolras, you better fucking let him get arrested. He has the money, R, you don’t.”

Grantaire nods, even though he’s not sure he can actually do that one. Sure, Enjolras has bail money more readily available than Grantaire does, but the idea of abandoning Enjolras feels wrong to him. He’s gone for so long watching from afar, wishing he was the sort of man who could help in the fight, and if he gets a chance he’s not sure he can step back and make good choices.

He meets Enjolras two blocks from the site, and lights up a cigarette while he waits. They had decided, so no one had enough info to rat the rest of them out, that Bossuet, who wasn’t coming, would give everyone their tasks, where to meet their partners, and when to go. That way, if Grantaire was arrested, he would legitimately be able to say he had no idea where Marius, or Combeferre was. Bossuet was good with this sort of strategy-based planning, so they trusted his decision making.

Enjolras shows up five minutes early, and looks a little surprised to see him. His hair is bundled up inside a hoodie to make himself less noticeable and his hands are covered by leather gloves. In each hand he has several large shopping bags full of sugar, which he places down on the ground next to the bags Grantaire brought. “Your face,” he says softly, and his hand raises as if he’s going to touch the place where Grantaire’s mark usually sits, but stops himself at the last moment.

“Surprise?” Grantaire asks, and offers him a drag off his cigarette. “’Ponine thought it was for the best.”

Enjolras waves the cigarette away. “I wasn’t certain you’d come.”

Grantaire scowls. “You had no reason to suspect that beyond your own bullshit. When I have not come through for you?”

Enjolras scowls back. “What about the time you were supposed to get those contacts of yours to help us out with organizing and when I got there you were playing Mario Kart and drinking with them?”

“They needed convincing! And I was fucking close when you ruined it all, thanks for that.” They spend a moment consciously not looking at each other.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says after a long moment. “You’re right. I haven’t been trusting and that’s on me.”

“Damn right it is,” Grantaire replies, but not unkindly. His heart is beating a mile a minute, and he wants to reach out and touch Enjolras, but he thinks right now, in this moment, a reminder that Enjolras is not his soulmate might kill him. “We’re cool, though. You know that, right?”

Enjolras’s face softens by degrees. “Yeah, I know.” He looks at his watch and frowns. “We gotta get going. You still ready for this?”

“Born ready.” It’s a lie, Grantaire isn’t sure he’s ever felt more nervous in his life. He tucks his hair into the collar of his jacket so it hangs down his back and isn’t liable to be recognizable or smack him in the face.

They sneak through a hole in the fence on the northeast, cut by Bahorel and his handy dandy bolt cutters. It’s a relief to see the slight gap in the gate—it means things are going smoothly so far—and they relax by degrees. There are a couple of smaller mixers on site, and one big one. The big one was left to Bahorel because it involves actual climbing, and several of the other groups are set on sabotaging the dry mix and sand, or mixing sugar into the concrete that’s already been laid and not set. Enjolras and Grantaire are tasked to mess up one of the smaller mixers, and Courfeyrac cased the place earlier, giving them a fairly simple path to follow.

Grantaire is sure there must be at least a few guards, but so far everything is quiet, which is better than he had hoped for. They find the mixer quickly and Enjolras begins working at once, mixing the sugar into the grit already in the mixer, and then adding it to the massive bags of dry cement while Grantaire keeps watch. His heart is beating a mile a minute, loudly in his ears and blocking out most other sounds. 

Enjolras is swearing softly, trying to mix the grit in the bags at least enough that the sugar won’t be noticeable, and Grantaire is scanning back and forth when he sees a flashlight sweeping around, maybe halfway across the site from them. He freezes, unsure of what to do, and then he hears the stupid code, Marius’s loud “ca-caw!” which sounds much more like a man pretending to be a bird than it does a bird.

It spurs him to action, and he turns to Enjolras, who is working even quicker if possible, but shows no sign of stopping. “Enjolras,” he hisses. “We gotta go now!”

Enjolras spares him one frantic glance, then shakes his head. “We have to finish!”

Grantaire looks back out at the yard. The light is coming towards them, and in the panicked silence he can hear the rustle of other bags, the movement of his friends’ bodies. “Now!” he hisses at Enjolras again, but Enjolras is ignoring him.

To hell with Enjolras, he decides. He has a family he has to get back to. He makes it five steps before the guilt catches up with him and he turns back around. He can’t let them get Enjolras, or any of their friends. He can’t let them be caught when they’re doing good work and the only thing he was supposed to do was keep watch. What’s the point of keeping watch if you don’t do anything once you’ve gotten the fucking intel? Grantaire takes a deep breath and then whistles, loud as he can. Everything stills, and then the flashlight swings towards him.

“Over here, you mall cop wannabe!” he yells, then turns tail and runs. The site becomes louder then. Maybe more security guards, he isn’t sure, and he doesn’t give them a chance to show themselves, running as hard as he can away from Enjolras. It’s very dark and he gets turned around quickly, darting through piles of lumber and rebar, skirting around shovels and generators.

He’s pretty sure he’s losing his tail. Grantaire turns around to check and misses a piece of rebar jutting out from the pile and it takes him down at the ankle, and he rolls to the ground in a pile of dull agony. He scrambles behind the pile of supplies and tries to control his breathing. He’s panting hard, ankle a persistent throbbing and the shoulder where he took the fall feels hot and bruised. Taking the quietest breaths he can, he rolls himself tightly into a ball. He’s not sure how he’s going to get out of the yard at this rate. He doesn’t know where he is in relation to the guards or the holes Bahorel cut in the fencing; he’s not sure if he can hobble, let alone run.

The guards run past him, thankfully not peering around the stack of things he has chosen to sit behind, and as soon as they are out of sight, he rises to his feet and begins hobbling to the fence. Luck is on his side, because as soon as he gets near, he can see the slight gap in the fence he first came in and limps towards it, trying to put as little pressure on his ankle as possible while moving quickly. It’s hard to maneuver through the fence like this, but he’s easing his way out when the flashlight beam falls on him again. He manages to pull himself out into the street. There are hands grasping at him and maybe voices, but he can’t make out what they’re saying.

He runs, bolting away from the scene even though it makes his ankle scream in pain, pushing forward. All he can hear is the sound of his own breathing rushing by his ears, and the distant sound of voices, and maybe dogs? He turns and then turns again, trying to lose them by twisting through the maze of side streets and alleys around the school, but there are still a few persistent sets of footsteps behind him

Grantaire is running out of steam when he hears someone hiss something that might be his name, and a hand reaches out to him from an alley. It could be a trap, maybe one of the guards ran ahead or maybe it’s a robber looking for a convenient steal and he’s an obvious target. Regardless, he’s not sure he can stay on his feet for very much longer, so he turns abruptly and reaches out for the hand. He misses it, grabbing it around the wrist, and is pulled into the alley.

The forward momentum spins him around, and then he is pressed against the brick wall. The air is pushed out of his lungs, but as his eyes stop swimming he recognizes the person who accosted him. As soon as he begins to open his mouth, Enjolras—because of course it’s Enjolras—slams a firm hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. There are shouts from the edge of the alley, and then he sees people running by, but they don’t seem to have been spotted. 

Grantaire looks back to Enjolras, unsure if there are more men coming, if they should panic or not. He is looking into Enjolras’s eyes, though, so everything must be okay. He takes a breath, his hand still gripping Enjolras’s arm, and then is suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of warmth, starting at his mouth and tumbling down his veins like a waterfall.

Enjolras’s hand loosens slightly, his eyes widening. Grantaire doesn’t have to move his hand or Enjolras’s to know what’s happening. Orgasmic is the biggest under-exaggeration he’s maybe ever heard. Grantaire takes a breath and it feels like the first one he’s ever taken, like the ground is shifting beneath his feet. His breath stutters in his chest, palms sweaty and everything spinny.

Enjolras is staring at him with something like longing, gasping tiny, soft breaths. He moves his hand away slowly, but Grantaire can’t let go of the grip he has on Enjolras’s other wrist. With a shaky hand, Enjolras reaches out and traces the lines of Grantaire’s soulmark, now surely faded from black to a more muted brown.

Grantaire wants to say something but he’s not sure if he should, if it’ll shatter the moment like glass, or if there are still security guards actively looking for them. Enjolras makes the decision for him, leaning in slowly, eyes flickering from his eyes to his lips, telegraphing his intent, and Grantaire gives him a little nod.

Enjolras’s lips on his is another revelation. Grantaire gasps and Enjolras presses deeper, tongue fucking into Grantaire’s mouth with intensity but gentleness. When he pulls away, there are tears in Grantaire’s eyes and the fact that he has to let go of Enjolras’s hand to brush them away is a crime. They stand, staring for a long moment, and the world begins to reassert itself, the pain in Grantaire’s ankle, his shoulder, his head.

“We should go,” he says after a long moment and Enjolras nods, looking unsure. “We can talk at Joly’s.”

“Joly’s?” Enjolras asks, looking him up and down. Grantaire is not sure he looks particularly injured, but as the tingling fades out he’s beginning to really feel it.

Grantaire steps away from the wall and would have lost his balance if Enjolras wasn’t there to catch him. Enjolras props him up and together they limp away from the construction site. Joly doesn’t live too far from here, although it feels like it takes one thousand years to Grantaire’s fucked up ankle. All too soon they are there and Bossuet is helping Grantaire stumble up the stairs.

He limps into the apartment and throws himself into an armchair. Enjolras hangs back, hugging the wall. Grantaire half expects Joly or Bossuet or especially Musichetta to comment on his soulmark, before remembering it’s covered up, and he tries not to feel disappointed. Joly pronounces the shoulder a “fuck of a bruise,” and the ankle, “probably not broken but you might wanna double check in a few days,” before wrapping the ankle and tying ice packs to him.

Marius and Feuilly are also there, ice packed and bandaged for their scratches and Marius’s impressive self-inflicted black eye, but they’re tucked away at the table and Grantaire is in the little nook of a den, and soon enough it’s just him in the armchair and Enjolras against the wall. There is the faint sound of laughter from the other room, and Joly making tea from his mom’s old tea set. It sounds pleasantly domestic, and Grantaire has to stop himself from getting up and limping to the kitchen to avoid this conversation.

“Soooo,” Grantaire says after a long, uncomfortable moment. “We should probably talk about this.”

Enjolras crosses his arms over his chest, looking even more closed off than he did moments before, and Grantaire’s heart sinks. “I guess so.”

Grantaire blows out a breath and tries to stop the sinking feeling in his chest from sinking any further. It’s disappointment, it’s sadness, that the furious connection they felt in the alley seems to be waning for Enjolras; his grasp on his own emotions is tenuous and he doesn’t want to yell. “It’s okay if you’re disappointed. I’m an adult, I can take it.” He laughs a bitter little laugh. “Hell, you’ve spent enough of our time knowing each other glaring at me, I’m sure this has to have been a shock. A bad shock. A…bock.”

Enjolras shakes his head, his stern face morphing into something more like confusion. “I’m not disappointed.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Grantaire says, aiming for bitter but ending somewhere in the vicinity of pained.

Enjolras’s arms uncross and his brow furrows further. “No, I’m not disappointed, but you seemed so…and then you pulled away so suddenly, I just thought…”

Grantaire shakes his head, beginning to try and get to his feet but Enjolras rushes over, pushing him back down onto the chair, looking alarmed. “I just started hurting and we were still in trouble. I didn’t want us to get caught on account of how busy we were, what with all the kissing. But then you pulled back.”

Enjolras kneels down next to the chair. His eyes are swimming and his face is as open as Grantaire has ever seen it. “I spent years of my life waiting for this to happen, and it went very off script. I got a little thrown.”

“Years?” There is a lump in Grantaire’s throat but he pushes it down.

Enjolras nods awkwardly. “From the moment I saw you, I was sure it was you. I had that feeling in the pit of my stomach, that warmth, like I had just come home after a long trip.” He smiles, gently, and Grantaire can see him tracing the edges of his soulmark absently with the other hand. “When we first started hanging out, I was hoping…I mean, I know our first handshake didn’t go well, but I was hoping, if we spent enough time together maybe your soulmark would move for me. Be somewhere that made sense. I couldn’t imagine a situation where I would feel an extreme enough emotion that I would want to cover your mouth, so I figured, since I was sure you were it, maybe it just needed incentive to move. But then I asked you out and you said no, so I sort of gave up.”

This is news to Grantaire. “You what?”

“I gave up?” Enjolras offers, sounding unsure.

“No, no,” Grantaire clarifies, glaring lightly. “You asked me out?”

Enjolras nods. “Yeah, I asked you if you wanted to get coffee with me and study for Lamarque’s test.”

Grantaire is trying his hardest to keep from strangling Enjolras, but it’s tempting. “Enjolras, we got coffee and studied for his class every week.”

Enjolras looks puzzled, like he’s not sure how that is related and Grantaire would throttle him if he didn’t want to kiss him instead. “Yes, but this time it was at night. And you said no.”

“Man, I had therapy!” Grantaire’s feelings are vacillating wildly between anger and the growing sense of possibility thrumming through him. “I didn’t know it was a date, and then you stopped inviting me around.”

Enjolras frowns, lips pursing as he goes into his thinking place, and Grantaire adores him. “You really didn’t know?”

“I really didn’t,” Grantaire affirms. “And then you started dating Feuilly.”

Enjolras groans. “Don’t remind me!”

“And so I thought if there was anything between us it was just wishful thinking on my part.”

“It wasn’t.” Enjolras licks his lips, and reaches out tentatively, putting his hand on Grantaire’s. Grantaire winds their fingers together immediately. “I’ve wanted you for years, R.”

Grantaire shivers. He’s not sure Enjolras has ever said his name like that before. “And that translated to glaring at me, how?”

“I wanted it to be me. I wanted to be your soulmate. And I was upset that I wasn’t, that you didn’t seem interested, that I would have to shut you up if you were meant to be mine. I’m aware it’s not the most well-adjusted reaction of mine, but I was so, so sure...”

Grantaire smiles at him, a little teary eyed despite himself. “Well. You weren’t wrong, so there’s that.”

Enjolras laughs, sounding a little wrecked, but he’s close, and his hand is warm in Grantaire’s. “Haven’t you learned? I’m never wrong.”

“Don’t push it!”

Enjolras reaches out, hesitating right before Grantaire’s face. He shakes his head and makes his move anyway, trailing his fingers lightly over Grantaire’s mouth. “I’m sorry I made you feel like your soulmate didn’t care what you had to say. I did, and I do.”

Grantaire is determined not to actually cry, but Enjolras is making it hard for him. He doesn’t want to shake Enjolras’s hand free, but that makes it harder for him to wipe the tears away. “I wanted it to be you,” Grantaire admits.

“It is,” he replies simply, with a shrug. “I was also a little nervous about how this would affect your relationship with Eponine. I know she found her soulmate recently, but I’m not sure how that affects your living situation or your relationship with her or Gavroche.”

Grantaire zips from emotional to barely holding in laughter in two seconds flat. “I’m sorry. Do you think I’m dating my roommate? Related, do you think that Gavroche is mine, that I’m Eponine’s baby daddy?”

“I didn’t know what to think! And you are his dad, are you not?” Embarrassment looks cute on Enjolras, but Grantaire is still stuck on his words.

He’s gone a very long time without thinking too hard about what he is to Gavroche, despite the fact he’s been co-parenting him for four years. “Not legally,” he says, because it’s true.

“Does that matter?” 

It’s all too much for Grantaire to deal with right now. “Listen, if you’re not disappointed that I’m your soulmate can you just come here and kiss me, please?”

Enjolras blinks at him for a moment, taken aback, before he dives at Grantaire’s face and kisses him fiercely. Something loosens in Grantaire’s chest and he feels like he can breathe again for the first time in ages. It feels like maybe he wasn’t breathing for years and he had never noticed until right now. Enjolras kisses him deep and slow, barely putting any weight on Grantaire’s aching body.

“You were so brave tonight,” Enjolras says when he pulls away, resting his forehead against Grantaire’s. “It was so hot.” Grantaire grumbles a little laugh, unable to contain himself, and Enjolras continues. “Do you wanna go steady with me?”

Grantaire’s laughter is louder this time. “Go steady? Are you like a million years old?”

Enjolras bites his lip to try and hide a smile, but it peeks around the edges. “Nah, but I’ve been waiting a million years to ask you.”

Grantaire’s not sure his heart can feel anymore full without exploding. “Yeah, Enjolras, I’ll go steady with you. Do I get your letterman jacket, or what?”

Enjolras pulls away smiling, and Grantaire is momentarily distracted from his pain by the sheer delight on Enjolras’s face when he hears the distinct sound of Joly sniffling. “I told you,” he hisses to presumably one of his partners. “I told you.”

“We have an audience,” Grantaire says mildly, but it doesn’t knock the smile off Enjolras’s face like he assumed it would.

“Let’s get you home.”

They thank Joly, call an uber, and Enjolras helps Grantaire hobble to the door. “Do you want to come in?” Grantaire asks when they get there. He’s not sure what his tone is doing. He wants Enjolras to come in, wants to fuck with the sort of teenage desperation he thought he had outgrown, but mostly he wants to collapse into bed and stay there for a while.

Enjolras hesitates but he shakes his head. Leaning in to give Grantaire one last kiss he says, “Let’s slow down. I think you should talk to Eponine, who I’m sure is worried sick about you, and if you’re feeling up to it then tomorrow we could maybe get dinner? Or, what is it, netflix and chill?”

Grantaire nods, feeling sort of relieved. “Yes please. You have to teach me what this ‘going steady’ is all about.” He puts the key in the lock and limps inside, waving to Enjolras as Enjolras descends the stairs, eyes on Grantaire the entire time.

“What the fuck, Grantaire?” Eponine hisses as soon as he is fully inside. “It’s been hours with no communication! Do you know how worried I was?” She pulls him into a hug with her fists clenched.

“Sorry, Ep,” he whispers back, aware of the gremlin sleeping in the spare room. “Came as soon as I could.”

“Are you hurt?” He nods and she takes off one of her house shoes and whacks him in the arm with it. It doesn’t hurt and he has to keep from laughing. “Get to the bathroom, let me see what’s the matter with you.” She herds him into the small bathroom so she can see him under the better light and frowns. “Your ankle?”

“Hurts,” he replies honestly. “But I think it’s a sprain. Bruised my shoulder. I’m okay.”

Eponine shoves him onto the closed toilet, still muttering under her breath as she pokes and prods him. She grabs a washcloth, wetting it in the sink and attacking the cement dust and makeup still caked on his face. She presses a little harder around his lips, and then again, squinting. “You did not—!”

“Shh!” Grantaire swallows down his grin. “It’s Enjolras.”

“Of course it’s Enjolras,” she says, bending down to grab her house shoe and menace him with it again. “Fuck, congrats!”

“Thank you.” The adrenaline is fading fast and he yawns. 

Eponine looks him up and down and then takes pity on him, supporting him as he limps to bed. He changes quickly and Eponine sits on the corner of his bed, waiting for him to settle. She curls up next to him, which isn’t unusual for them. “What’s the plan?”

Grantaire immediately feels better lying down and it takes him a moment to parse her meaning. “Long term?” She nods and he feels it against his side.

“This was never meant to be your long term,” she says, and it’s true. They were supposed to watch Gavroche for one week when he was four and now the little bastard is eight. “If you want to step out, Cosette knows that being with me means him. We talked about it. She wants to ease her way into his life, but. We’ll make do.”

He turns on his side to face her, grateful she picked his uninjured shoulder to lean up against. “Do you want me to go?”

Eponine’s face closes off, closer to the mask she wore before he knew her like he does now, and his heart hurts. “It would be…easier if you didn’t,” she says finally, but he knows how to read between her lines.

Blowing out a breath he says, “I don’t know what’s going to happen long term, Eponine. We can get two houses and split custody or one big one and have separate rooms, but I don’t want out of either of your lives unless you want me out. You’re my qpp and he’s my son. Do you want me out?” He’s never used titles for them before, and it feels foreign and kind of wrong, but mostly surprisingly right.

Eponine shakes her head, then buries it in his chest. She doesn’t sound like she’s crying, but he knows that doesn’t mean she isn’t. “No, you dumb motherfucker.” She snorts. “Qpp sounds like a fucking sauce.”

He grins, flopping back on his back and pulling her with him. “We’ll have to get an extra bedroom so we can have coparenting stress nights like this away from our soulmates.”

She laughs, a little wet. “They’ll be coparents, too.”

Grantaire laughs back. “Okay so we can have our cuddle and stress room and so can they.”

Eponine’s laugh this time sounds more like herself. “God, I would pay to see Cosette and Enjolras cuddle.”

“He thought I was your baby daddy,” Grantaire whispers, conspiratorially, and Eponine laughs so hard the bed shakes, and it’s so good. He can have this, he can have all of this, and he’s going to hold onto it with everything he’s got.

He wakes up to a text from Enjolras reading: your place or mine after the meeting? please consider my roommates are courf and ferre with a heart eyes emoji stuck in the middle and Grantaire feels something inside him melt. He replies, one of mine is 8 and Enjolras replies immediately, mine it is!

His ankle is still sore but he can put more weight on it today, and it ferries him fine to school and back home, and even to the news stand to read about their crime, which seems to have gone more successfully than they could have hoped. The article details the break in, the chase, but the sugar and their identities are yet to be discovered.

The tone of the meeting is an odd mix of excitement and apprehension. They got away with it, as Bahorel is quick to say. “But for how long?” Feuilly counters. It can take more than a month for cement to dry, so they’re in for the long game.

Grantaire stays to drink dirt cheap champagne with Jehan and Bahorel before his date, making sure to drink just enough to take the edge off without edging into tipsy territory. His ankle is obnoxiously sore when he hauls ass over to Enjolras’s but it’s worth it for the tentative smile on Enjolras’s face when he opens the door.

“You came,” he says happily, and Grantaire is a strong man but no man could be strong enough not to be moved. “Can I kiss you again?”

Grantaire answers him with a kiss, right there in the doorway, and ignores the catcalls of Courfeyrac entirely. Enjolras grabs his hand and drags Grantaire into his bedroom, shutting the door with a slam.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding only mildly apologetic. “Courfeyrac is being a lot, and I was going to cook you dinner but he distracted me, and it got burnt, so instead I’m gonna buy you dinner and cuddle up next to you while we watch something, that good?”

Grantaire nods. “No complaints here.” It’s sweet that Enjolras tried to cook for him and it warms his heart a little, even if he’s sad he’s not going to get the chance to actually try it. He looks around the room. It’s neat, but less neat than he would have expected it to be, clothes thrown on the chair and a few other surfaces, open books and half empty cups of tea on every available surface. He beams, utterly charmed. It’s so Enjolras, and he gets to be here to see it. “What are we eating, then?”

Enjolras blushes, looking at the floor. “I don’t really know what you like beyond coffee and scones. And the occasional sandwich. Can I interest you in Indian food? Or like…pizza?”

It probably says something sad about him that he would accept anything right now if Enjolras suggested it, but he nods. “Yeah. I like food, I’ll take whatever.”

With a laugh Enjolras pulls him in and gives him another quick kiss. “We can wait a little if you need time to remember what kind of food you like.” He places his hands on Grantaire’s hips, and Grantaire barely keeps from shivering. It’s been a while since anyone has touched him like this, and he’s shocked that Enjolras seems to want to.

“Sure you’re not disappointed in your soulmate?”

Enjolras frowns, but he doesn’t move away from Grantaire, which as far as Grantaire is concerned is a mixed signal. “No, Grantaire. Not for a moment. But if you want this to go slower or if you’re having second thoughts—”

“No!” Grantaire places his arms around Enjolras’s neck cautiously and Enjolras smiles.

“Okay.” Enjolras gestures to the bed with his head. “Bed? To sit, or…you know, what have you.”

Grantaire lets his limbs get loose so he can be directed to the bed and sits down on it. “I’ll have whatever’s on offer,” he says, but it has to be someone else’s voice that comes out because he’s never sounded that hoarse before.

Enjolras chuckles, leaning in for a kiss, before pressing Grantaire back onto the bed and crawling over him. “Let’s start with some kissing. Then maybe we can get into a little heavy petting. But I think both of us could use dinner, so maybe not too much to start off with.”

Grantaire kisses him hungrily, moaning as Enjolras’s thigh comes down between his legs. “Sounds good,” he says between kisses, although he feels strongly that missing dinner this once wouldn’t be so bad. “We,” a kiss, “should also,” another, “talk.” He’s breathless with kisses but something about kissing Enjolras feels more intimate, more intense than any kiss he’s ever had before. Enjolras pulls back for a moment. “Not about anything bad! Sorry, I know how that sounds, sorry. Sorry.” Grantaire gives him an apologetic smile. “It’s hard to shut me up.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” Enjolras replies, fiercely, and Grantaire has to kiss him after something like that. He doesn’t have a choice. 

Later, they will eat pizza on Enjolras’s floor and Grantaire will tease Enjolras into defining “going steady.” They will lie next to each other in bed, and Grantaire will lay out his dreams for their future four parent household and Enjolras will say, “okay.” Later, they will fall asleep next to each other and then wake up next to each other and do it again and again and again.

For now, Enjolras tells him, “I want you to tell me every thought you ever want to share,” and it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> hello i am gabe racetrackthehiggins and i accept complements, kofis and also prompts. the next thing you will see from me will, unfortunately, be abo bc i love my friends and i have trouble turning down a challenge xoxo


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